no rest for the wicked
by lydiamartins
Summary: She hangs up the phone, and runs her hands through strawberry-colored tangles of hair, discarding a limp green ribbon which hangs on the side, and thinks that high expectations only end in disappointment -— dylancentric, slight massiederrick; for coppertone wars' twelve days of christmas challenge, level six, part two!


**no rest for the wicked**  
dylancentric

.

Dylan Marvil grew up in the presence of paparazzi, diaphanous lights seeping into the crevices of the family mansion in Westchester, New York **— **her eleventh birthday celebration (never a party, parties were for common people) was held at the Waldorf-Astoria in the heartland of the Upper East Side. She donned an opaque dress, the top portion of semi-translucent sunshine colored near her shallow collarbones which contrasted vividly with malachite eyes and strawberry colored hair which caught in the sunlight, the smooth as stain edges of the dress which brushed past her ankles, enjoined to cherry-red stilettos. The extra two inches of height brought her to somewhere over four and a half feet, and the rest of her society circle friends dwarfed her with their summer wedges and hereditary height.

_Mom. _Dylan walked over to her mother midway through the event, and was met with a sharp, obstinate glare, matching malachite eyes always searching for imperfections. _Mother, _she corrected herself, _I was wondering if father was going to be coming today? _He was supposed to come, at least **—** Dylan had received the rocketship-themed postcard and the e-mail RSVP, and even though her father lived halfway across the country in the land of sunny beaches and windy cities, he would come. She was sure of that much. After all, unlike her mother, her father never let her down.

Her mother had taken a sigh, and moved Dylan into the kitchen, kneeling down to her youngest daughter's height. _Darling, you know that your father would have tried to make it, but things got in the way **— **like flight interference. This morning, your father's flight was canceled, so he won't be able to make it this year. _Dylan had commanded herself not to let the tears fall, so she had wiped them away before they even form, and walked out of the kitchen, bottling all of her emotions up.

_I am stronger than this, _she murmured to herself softly, and walked into the sunshine alone.

.

Two years later, Dylan sits on the edge of a piano bench meticulously painted fingers pressing down upon the ivory keys in a flying frenzy **— **the cacophonous sounds are subdued by the somewhat sound-proof door, though she can still hear the insults which stick into the crevices of her brain, and thinks that Ryan and Jamie could have played the piano better; it's a beautiful instrument, if nothing else.

Some things are just meant to be put on the side, for other people to admire **— **sometimes, the purpose of an object (or a person, really) is to just be _pretty._ Hours later, she slides into a polyester mini-skirt, which hugs the sides of her legs tightly, the fraying edges of blue and yellow mixing together with loose pink threads; her phone rings, suddenly. _I can't talk for long but about that thing with Massie and Derrick; I was wondering if you knew what he was actually doing? _Kristen's voice echoes loudly on the other side of the line.

_Derrick was just using us to get to Massie, because he likes her, not either of us? _The interference on her cell resounds loudly, echoing into the crevices of eardrums; Dylan speaks in a clear tone, trying not to let the distaste or hurt seep through the phone.

_Pretty much. Y'know, I would rather have him like you, because then I could use all of your overwhelming insecurities to dismantle your budding relationship with Derrick._

Dylan's malachite eyes narrow in distaste. _Yeah, and I wish that Derrick liked you instead so that I could tell your mom about it and she would either ship you off to Switzerland, or put a restraining order on Derrick from coming within a mile-radius of you. _Dylan doesn't doubt the capacity of Marsha Gregory when it came to protecting her only daughter from 'influences of evil', as she called it; she hangs up the phone, and runs her hands through strawberry-colored hair, discarding a limp green ribbon which hangs on the side, and thinks that high expectations only end in disappointment.

_I am stronger than this, _she mumbles to herself, chanting the words over and over as though they're a prayer, as if she says them enough times, Dylan might end up believing them.

.

Dylan thinks that she'd rather be Dylan Marvil, daughter of celebrity and talk show host Merri-Lee Marvil, any day rather than be Dylan Marvil, trophy girlfriend of the soccer captain.

It doesn't matter though, because she can't be either anymore **— **she stands numbly outside of the service, picking on the apple flakes that stick to the sides of her Invisaline braces, ugly metal wires shielded from the camera, and ignores the way that the gravestones are stacked behind one another, in an orderly fashion because nothing about life is orderly. It's more like a rollercoaster, because one second, this cute boy asks you out to Homecoming and the next minute, life decides that you don't have enough problems as it is, and then something like _this_ happens.**  
**

Ryan and Jamie sit inside of the funeral service; she sees them through the semi-translucent stained glass windows, and notices the flimsy qualities of their smiles and wonders exactly how long it will take for the paparazzi to follow the Marvils to the outskirts of the Upper East Side, in a place where prying eyes aren't as welcome as they are in the heart of the city. There's a tap on her shoulder, and Dylan spins around on the side of her heel, holding onto the person's shoulder to hold balance, and steps down from the small mound of dirt that elevates her to look into the windows; she recognizes the amber eyes and chestnut curls and gives a tight smile. _Derrick, so glad that you could make it, _she says coolly. (_I'm stronger than this, _she mumbles incoherently to herself, _OI will not show my inner ire_.)

She won't say anything else, she tells herself; Dylan won't let Derrick know how much he really hurt her. _Dylan, look, I'm really sorry about what happened but I'd like to be there for you, now **—**_

_What happened? _She says, innocent doe eyes a reflection of the sun rays, her limp strawberry hair oiled with time. _Look, _Dylan continues, grasping Derrick's hands in her own, _I really have to go now, because there's this uh, speech that I have to make, but I'm glad that you could make it in this time, and feel free to stay after for refreshments and drinks._

Dylan walks away quickly in the other direction, and wonders why Derrick Harrington is the only thing that resides in her mind during her own mother's funeral; she stumbles upon a few twigs and words, and as the crowd slowly files out at the end of the service, she sits on the sidelines once more; the car-ride back home is empty and desolate, and she can hear her own mother's voice in the distance (_Can you believe it? We're going to be on television, darlings - all four of us!_) but it's not the same anymore, and all the Marvil children know that.

.

It takes a year for the Marvil family to move on from the death of Merri-Lee Marvil, but they do it with poise and elegance.

In the first month of the new year, Ryan and Jamie organize the New Year's Eve bash in the center of New York heartland and it isn't as impressive as what their mother could have arranged, but it's a step there; Ryan and Jamie are allowed to miss several days of school, but Dylan is mandated to return to the world of flimsy people and their even flimsier rumors — she sits at the edge of the Pretty Committee's table, wondering how her life had gotten so complicated, shielding her face from her classmates, ones that she didn't even know, who come up to her every five minutes or so, offering their ever-so-sincere condolences, and then launching into a series of questions about how the 'Marvil family' was dealing with the situation.

Even Alicia couldn't resist her reporter genes; Massie finally stands up to the somehow adoring populace, and tells them _to shut up and go back to their ugly little seats where they belong, _and Dylan thinks that she couldn't have survived the first month without her friends.

The rest of the year goes by in a blur, summer months filled with galas and social events (to each one, she wears the same fraying blue-and-yellow skirt, pointy red stilettos that match pale face and strawberry-shining curls heavily sprayed with a smell akin to jasmine and something processed), delicate clinkings of the glasses, and when she's a year older, blowing out the candles in the solace of the mansion, she thinks that they'll be okay.

Except, it's not going to be okay — Ryan and Jamie are closer than ever, their A-string personalities blending into one, and their reddened curls hang loosely above mid-back, flashing smiles as though this glorious world they live in has never been better, and Dylan wonders how she got left out of the whirlwind.

When Derrick Harrington is spotted walking up the paved driveway, bare feet placed on hot black cement, she closes her eyes and quickly applies a fresh coat of cotton candy lip gloss because as much as she'd like to admit, Dylan never really got over Derrick Harrington (as it is the case with relationships that never happened in the first place) and feels impossibly light as he smiles — seven months has passed since she's last saw him in the hallways, on mounds of dirt outside the eerie chapel, and his hair looks blonde, lightened in the rays of sunlight and there's this energetic, charismatic smile that's imprinted upon his features when he's looking at the Marvil Mansion, a slight leap in his step. Dylan can almost imagine him on her doorstep, asking for forgiveness for his actions, maybe a chance to redeem himself, like it is in all the movies and he's almost there —

Dylan's vision fades as she looks upon the familiar female figure; her amber eyes shine brightly, with the smallest amount of regret in the edges of them, concealed under layers and layers of confusion and defiance. She is skinnier than Dylan, skinnier than the rest of the girls (a King only deserves a Queen, of course) and Derrick and her fingers are interlocked tightly, as if they're supporting one another—

She tastes something akin to vomit forming at the back of her throat, and releases the pinch that her metallic painted fingers, which suddenly seem dull in the absence of admiration, and forces a flimsy, fake smile which hurts her eyes, the sunlight gleaming dangerously upon them (Dylan finally knows that _DylanandDerrick _are over, but then again, they never began. The doorbell rings twice, and she stands numbly at the top of the staircase, frozen in place, and pinches herself out of the reverie once more). _I'm stronger than this, _she mutters slowly.

(Derrick and Massie start officially dating in the midst of autumn months, falling down, something Massie had sworn _would boost the Pretty Committee's popularity up so much _once high school arrived, and Dylan still feels sort of broken.)

.

_With time all scars heal, _she reads slowly, pacing back and forth in her bedroom —

It's a strange sight to behold, something that is not meant to be that bedroom of a girl who is meant to be something of a celebrity upon high school graduation (or perhaps, Dylan Marvil is already a celebrity). She leans back in a modern looking chair, holes in between her ragged sweatpants, her red curls tied up in a bun near the back, fingers frantically typing over computer screens; the small-sized heater faces her, blowing curls into her face and she periodically reaches for a Christmas-themed Kleenex box, cold seeping through her lungs.

Dylan stands on glossy linoleum surfaces moments later, cherry-painted lipstick cracking as it makes an imprint upon porcelain edges and Dylan sticks metallic-painted fingers down her throat. It takes about five seconds for the flashing neon lights to go off in the back of her muddled brain, and she stands up quickly, closing the toilet to remind herself that this isn't worth it — it isn't worth the potential hair loss, maybe even death to prove a point to herself, that she's in control —, running her fingers through her strawberry locks. Dylan mutters, pacing back in front of the full-sized mirrors which cast harsh reflections upon her facial features.

_I'm stronger than this, _she says, repeating the words to herself. _I'm Dylan Marvil and I'm fabulous, and I'm strong._

.

**wrote this up in about an hour bc i feel as though i write too many things where dylan is dependent on boys and has eating disorders because of them, and i really liked dylan in the books bc she didn't depend on anybody for her own self-confidence in the beginning, and being herself was enough so i tried to capture that spirit near the end while keeping the insecurities in her as well - hope you guys like this; please leave any criticism below, c:**


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